


Verwelken

by HopelessBanana



Series: Unerwidert [2]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Experimental Style, F/M, Gap Filler, Gratuitous German, Literary References & Allusions, Manga Spoilers, Master/Servant, Non-Chronological, Spoilers for the rose investigation arc, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 02:30:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5767849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopelessBanana/pseuds/HopelessBanana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is 11.00 p.m. and Kanae is lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Verwelken

**Author's Note:**

> there is a ridiculous amount of german in this and i bet i've got half of it wrong bc i wrote most of the german bits at like one in the morning when i couldn't sleep (if anyone has any corrections, please please please let me know!)
> 
> title means "to wilt"
> 
> fun fact by the way: i hate this pairing i just really love kanae

_This is my stubbornness._

Who am I?

 _Karren_  
_Nathanael_  
_Arunolt_  
Emma

Why do I live?

_My pride. Master Shuu._

I love him.

_I just wanted to be loved._

* * *

 It is 6:30 a.m. and Kanae is sitting in the kitchen, staring into a cup of coffee. Her reflection washes back at her, hazy and distorted. She raises a hand and traces her fingertips along her cheekbone. Along the bridge of her nose. Germans have strong, sharp features. The Japanese are soft and small.

She is so bony.

* * *

 It is 7.00 p.m. and Kanae is sitting by the fire in the living room, staring into the flames. She feels the warmth on her face, a tingling feeling.

* * *

 It is 11.00 p.m. and Kanae is lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling.

* * *

 It is 2.57 a.m. and Kanae is lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Her mind keeps wandering. This happens often. She will be tired in the morning.

* * *

 It is 6.40 a.m. and Kanae is holding a tray outside Tsukiyama's door, staring into a cup of coffee. Her bangs are slightly disarranged, but she can’t adjust them or she would probably drop the tray. She sighs. Lowers the door handle with her elbow and nudges it open. “Master Shuu,” she greets him, bowing her head. Her hair falls in her face. “I brought your morning coffee.”

“Kanae,” Tsukiyama replies, smiling warmly. “Good morning.” He waves her in.

Kanae sets the tray down on his bedside table, then stands straight. When Tsukiyama is looking at his coffee, she takes the opportunity to brush her hair into place. “Anything else I can get you?” she asks.

Tsukiyama’s head snaps up. He shakes it. Even first thing in the morning, before he has spent an inordinate amount of time fixing his hair from the tangled blue ball the servants have to pretend not to notice, when his face is still pale and tired, he is beautiful. Kanae loves these moments where it’s just the two of them more than anything else. She wants to stay like this forever.

“It’s alright, thank you, Kanae,” he says. He wraps his long, pale fingers round the cup; their second-best china, expensive, with delicate hand-painted blue flowers creeping up the sides. It is beautiful. It is easily broken. Aren't they one and the same?

Tsukiyama smells the coffee, breathing in deeply. He smiles again and lifts it to his lips, takes a sip even though it is still too hot. He never minds. Kanae bows. Tsukiyama opens his eyes, nods, and returns his attention to his drink. She leaves the room, closing the door silently behind her. She breathes out.

* * *

 Matsumae is washing dishes in the kitchen. It isn't her job, it’s the maids’, and she is far more important to the family than any of the ordinary servants, but sometimes she insists. “It's relaxing,” she says, smiling softly. “It's work but it isn't taxing.”

Kanae doesn't understand. She hates washing dishes, the monotony of it, how her hands wrinkle in the water and the lather gets stuck to them, the flakes of food swimming round in the bowl.

Matsumae says that because it’s repetitive, it has a rhythm. You don’t have to concentrate. Your mind can wander.

She hates it when her mind wanders.

* * *

She hates it when her mind wanders.

She is thinking of Tsukiyama again.

* * *

 It is 1:23 p.m. and Kanae is standing behind the door to the drawing room, eyes closed, her head leaning against the wall. Tsukiyama is playing the piano. She basks in the sound of it. The melody swoops over and through her, like a paintbrush washing over a canvas. Tsukiyama's song colours her a beautiful shade of lilac. It is happy, but she can’t quite place the name of it. She has heard it before, but it feels as if that was in a dream.

The music stops and she hears footsteps. Too fast, before she can move down the corridor, Tsukiyama flings the door open, a wide grin on his face. “Ah! Kanae!” he calls. She freezes. Turns. “It’s fantastic, Kanae. I've discovered something truly beautiful.”

“Master Shuu?” she asked.

“The most rare, _magnifique_ , ingredient!” he sighs. Kanae shifts uncomfortably as his eyes flutter closed. He presses a hand to his chest, rocking forwards onto his toes for a moment with a dramatic sigh. “You should smell him, Kanae!” He is always a bit dramatic.

She really doesn’t want to. “I'm sure you'll enjoy him very much, Master Shuu,” she says.

Tsukiyama snaps back to reality and stands still again, folding his arms loosely across his chest and grinning. “Thank you,” he smiles. He walks off past her down the corridor, humming the tune he was playing.

* * *

 It is 9.47 p.m. and Kanae is curled up in a chair, reading. It isn't a happy book, and she doesn't think she will like the ending.

* * *

_“Ich wollte nur geliebt sein.”_

_“I just wanted to be loved.”_

* * *

It is 2.37 p.m. and Kanae is sitting across from Tsukiyama, staring intently down at the chessboard between them. Her king is in check and the only way to move out of it is to take his bishop with her queen, but that will leave her to be taken by his knight. She scans her eyes frantically over the board, desperate to find another way. Eventually, Tsukiyama smirking as he watches, she picks up her queen and switches it with the bishop. The felt bottom on the piece dulls the thud of wood on wood.

Her queen can be taken. “ _En-prise,_ ” Tsukiyama mocks gently, snatching it off the board. It isn't malicious. Kanae shrugs it off. “You could still win though,” he reminds her, gesturing at her remaining pieces. She nods, but it is only because she doesn't know how else to respond. He isn't wrong. She _could_. But now it's much less likely.

* * *

It is 11.03 p.m. and Kanae is curled up in a chair, crying. A book lies open, slat across the floor, a couple of pages in the middle crushed under the weight of the binding.

* * *

Once, Tsukiyama gave her a bouquet of yellow roses. “Friendship is one of the most important things, don't you think?” he asked, smelling the flowers one last time before handing them to her.

A couple of nights ago, Kanae had finished rereading _Alice in Wonderland_. She imagined painting them red.

* * *

Ah. She remembers what Tsukiyama had been playing on the piano that day now.

Mozart’s _Eine Kleine Nachtmusik._

Apparently he wrote it on commission, just after his father had died, when both he and his wife were taken very ill with the flu. How, she wonders, did he manage to write something so happy when he must have been feeling so sad?

She wonders if in those first few, sharp notes, Mozart heard lashings of anger rather than undulations of joy.

* * *

It is 3:48 a.m. and Tsukiyama has been found.

Chie sits on the sofa, swinging her feet back and forwards and leaning her head back. Her socks are white with a band of elasticated lace round the top. The soles are marked yellow-brown. It makes Kanae cringe. That wasn't the sort of dirt that came about through sweat. The point of taking your shoes off was to not spread dirt around the house onto the floors. What was the point if you wore just socks outside? She grits her teeth, averting her eyes to stare out of the window. The night outside is pitch black.

Chie starts whistling.

Kanae closes her eyes. Clenches her fists in the fabric of her trousers. Curls her toes. Attempting to physically brace herself against the shrill sound does nothing. Chie keeps on quite happily, sharp squeaks mixing with deflated puffs of air.

“Please, be _quiet_ ,” she snaps, as polite as she possibly can bring herself to be. Chie is, technically, a guest. A guest that is now strangely silent.

Kanae looks up and back over at her. She looks a little surprised, then perks up. “I'm trying to teach myself to whistle,” she beams, as if Kanae had just expressed a deep interest in what she was doing. “I need to practice.” She purses her lips as if to start again.

“Not _here_ or _now_ ,” Kanae replies, irritated. Then she pauses. “Some of the servants are sleeping.” That makes a good enough excuse for snapping.

At least, she thinks it should. Chie, from the dull, bored look of disappointment on her face, appears to disagree. “This house is huge,” she protests, stretching her arms and laying them across the back of the sofa. She kicks her legs a little harder. “As if the servants sleep right next to the _drawing room_.”

Kanae has to resist the urge to hiss. Instead she just tuts and turns her head sharply to the right. She opens her mouth to speak, _t_ _hat noise is enough to wake the dead, regardless of where they are in the house,_  but is interrupted by the creaking of the door’s hinges. She spins round on the spot. Chie looks up too, through her thick, choppy, reddish brown fringe.

Matsumae stands, bathed in golden light from the hallway lights, holding a large tray. She steps forwards, allowing the door to fall closed behind her. Walks carefully towards the coffee table and sets it down. On the tray she has piled a plate of biscuits, cut into circles with petal-shaped edges. There seems to be pieces of butterscotch folded into the mixture. There is also a pot of tea, not the best china, but the third set. Pale green with gold edging. Two matching cups on saucers. One full of coffee. Kanae looks up, and Matsumae nods, bows and leaves the room.

By the time Kanae has turned back to Chie, she is heaping white sugar cubes from the delicate little dish into her tea. Kanae wrinkles her nose in disgust and picks up the other cup, breathing in the scent of the black, bitter coffee before taking a sip. When she opens her eyes again, Chie is filling the cup to the brim with milk, the tip of her tongue peeking from between her lips.

“Do you not like black tea?” Kanae asks, trying to keep the judgement out of her tone.

“Milk tea is better,” Chie replies. Kanae wonders how so much dairy doesn't make her feel ill. She thought the Japanese tended to be lactose intolerant. Apparently content, Chie sets the pouring jug down and takes a large gulp of her drink. Grins.

“How can you be so happy when Master Shuu might be very ill?” Kanae finally snaps, stomach twisting at the sight. “Aren't you his friend?”

Chie's face drops in surprise.

* * *

It is 2:15 a.m. and Tsukiyama walks into the house singing.

Kanae peeks out just in time to see him enter.

“ _I've got you under my skin_ ,” he croons, in English, passing his suit jacket to a surprised and confused maid. He stumbles down the hall, humming and two-stepping, before his eyes fix on Kanae and he breaks into a dazzling grin. Holding his arms out in front of him, he takes her hands and pulls her into the hallway, placing his hand on her waist. The maid blushes and ducks into another room.

“Master Shuu, you haven’t been drinking have you?” Kanae asks through peals of laughter as he leads her in a rough, sloppy versi, trying to contain herself. It isn't professional. (She almost doesn't care.)

The corner of Tsukiyama's mouth turns up, but he doesn't reply. Instead he leads her in a spin, and the room whirls around her in a blur of cream and gilt. “ _I would sacrifice anything, come what might, for the sake of having you near_ ,” he sings, and he really does have a beautiful voice. She forgets that sometimes. He usually only plays, and it's rare for him to sing as well, never mind by himself. He doesn't smell of alcohol. So he's just feeling very happy.

Well. He _is_ always a bit dramatic.

“You're in a good mood,” she says. The question is implied. He laughs, struggling to get his words out between gasps of breath. His pronunciation is slipping. His Italian, French are German are all excellent, of course, but usually his English is perfect. It amuses her a little.

Finally, he comes to a halt, giggling, and she stares breathless and dizzy up at him. “Oh, Kanae, he's _wonderful_ !” he gushes. Her heart drops into the pit of her stomach. Tsukiyama stops himself, seems to almost shake a thought away, and amends his statement. “He's going to be utterly _délicieux_.”

As if in a daze, he pulls away, places his hands on her shoulders and sighs, before drifting past her towards his room. She stands silent for a moment. “I'm sure,” she replies, dull and toneless, even though he is long gone.

* * *

Kanae tries washing the dishes.

She brushes the soapy sponge across the surface of the plate, watches the blood dissolve with the washing up liquid.

Of course, it doesn't help.

* * *

Kanae thinks of her parents before she falls asleep, and she dreams.

Karren stands outside the church doors, her hair long and curled, trailing over her shoulders. Her father stands beside her with a doting smile. Her white dress reaches the floor. The skirt is huge. She wonders, as she looks down at herself, where her legs are within the layers and layers of chiffon. There is a lilac sash around her waist. Her hands hold tightly to the bouquet of roses the same colour. Her father nods.

The doors swing open as one. Purple rose petals and squares of silver confetti flitter through the air. Some of them land in her hair. Some in the folds of her dress. Some catch in her flowers. She doesn't notice. All she can see is _him_ , at the end of the aisle, and the white carpet leading towards him seems all too long. Tsukiyama is beaming, just like her, and she notices him draw in a breath as he looks her up and down. His eyes glitter with joy.

Her father has her arm in his. When she can tear her eyes away from Tsukiyama, the rest of her family is there too. There's her mother, crying quietly and dabbing at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief, mouth formed into a serene smile. There are her brothers, warm eyed with proud smirks, shoulder to shoulder in matching charcoal suits. On Tsukiyama's side stand his father and Matsumae. Chie is there too, of course, and that's fine. That doesn't matter now.

She reaches the altar. Her mother steps forward to flip her veil back. Her fingertips linger to touch her cheeks. She smiles a watery smile and steps back. Karren looks back towards Tsukiyama. He offers her his hand. She takes it. Her father lets her arm go as she steps up onto the platform. Their eyes meet. His smile is brighter than any sun, than all the suns in the universe.

“Shuu und Karren, sind Sie freiwillig und bereiten Herzens gekommon, um miteinander die Ehe einzugehen?” asks the faceless priest her imagination has conjured.

“ _Ja_ ,” Tsukiyama replies.

“ _Ja_ ,” Karren echoes.

The ceremony continues.

“Ich nehme dich, Karren-” She imagines her name, her _real_ name, would sound beautiful from him. “Zu meiner Ehefrau, und verspreche, dir die Treue zu halten…”

“Ich nehme dich, _Shuu_ ,” and his name word lingers on her tongue (or would, were this dream reality). “Zu meinem Ehemann, und verspreche, dir die Treue zu halten in guten und bösen Tagen, in Gesundheit und Krankheit, ja dich will ich lieben und achten-” She stops. Breathes. Stares into his eyes. Even when they are only dredged up from her memory, they are beautiful, cinnamon red, shining. “Bis der Tod uns scheidet.”

* * *

_“Bis der Tod uns scheidet.”_

“‘Til death do us part.”

* * *

It is 6.23 a.m. and Kanae’s eyes fly open.

She stares at the ceiling. Looks down at her left hand.

She wishes the ring she’d imagined was there. She wishes the husband she’d married in her dream was beside her.

For a second, she closes her eyes and turns to lie on her side. “Guten Morgen, mein Ehemann,” she whispers to herself, a silly, giggly smile playing on her lips.

She opens her eyes, sees the empty bed, and rolls back over.

It was such a _nice_ dream.

* * *

 She does not know the date or the time anymore.

Her skull itches from the inside, an itch she cannot scratch.

She is unable to think, barely able to breathe, her mind feels like it is eating itself.

* * *

A rooftop. A man wearing black. Covered in blood. Hovering over Master Shuu. A sword, pointed at Master Shuu. He wants to hurt Master Shuu.

_Nein. Wie heißen Sie wirklich, Haise?_

Kanae does not feel like a person anymore. She leaps forward. She has to protect him. She cannot let him hurt her Master Shuu. 

* * *

_Ihr Gehirn isst sich selbst._

* * *

Is that her body, way up there? Something stretches out from her neck, reaching towards her like a mother to cradle her baby. She watches it. Waits.

* * *

During the French Revolution, a woman named Charlotte Corbay was executed for assassinating a politician. According to numerous eyewitness accounts, when one of the executioners held her head up and smacked her cheek, her severed head reacted to it with a look of disgust.

* * *

Matsumae re-enters the room, ten minutes later. To her credit, Chie actually looks concerned now. “He is in bed,” she tells them.

Kanae breathes a sigh of relief, enough that her entire body visibly relaxes.

“He isn't going to be well for a while,” Chie chimes, before picking up another biscuit, studying it momentarily, and biting into it.

“No. I don't think so,” Matsumae replies.

Chie stands. Brushes some crumbs from the corner of her mouth. She is small even when seen normally, but set against the grandeur of the Tsukiyama mansion she looks even more childlike. Bouncing, on the balls of her feet, she passes Kanae, and walks towards the door.

She yawns. “I'm gonna head home.”

Matsumae nods once, sharply. Chie leaves. In a couple of minutes she will be out of the house. A couple of minutes after that, off the estate.

Five minutes after she leaves, Kanae stands, picks up the cup she had been drinking from. Studies it. It’s only the third best china. She throws it hard against the wall, and it smashes into tiny fragments. “ _Scheiße_!”

* * *

_Es war ein schöner Traum._

* * *

Her head reattaches with a disgusting squelching noise, and an uncomfortable numb pain as her ligaments and nerves knit back together.

She knew that that Kaneki would be trouble from the start. He _stole_ him from her.

Sie geht ihm entgegen.

Haise. Kaneki. Whatever his name is, whatever it was, does not matter anymore. Whatever he was to her Master Shuu, whatever he thought of him. Whether Master Shuu cared for him or not. None of it, not a single thing matters now. He tried to _hurt_ him.

In a flurry, she pulls her kagune out. There is no time to think, decide, evaluate. She isn’t capable of that anymore. Maybe she is a monster now.

* * *

He is falling. Faster. Faster. No. _Nein!_

She leaps after him, the torn black tendrils of her clothing trailing behind her. She tells him she loves him. He tells her it is all okay.

* * *

It is 5.32 p.m. and Kanae has only just become Kanae. She is still small, standing alone in the garden. The sun would be warm except for the strong, chilly breeze.

She has never felt more hopelessly alone.

Her Japanese still isn't very good. She knows nobody. It is almost worse than being alone in Germany. In some ways, it is better.

Here, she is Kanae von Rosewald. She is the heir to the Rosewald family name. She asked that strangers and servants be told she is a boy. If a woman is married, it is expected of her to take her husband's name. She cannot do that. Mirumo had nodded gently at her, with soft eyes.

“Karren-chan, perhaps if this had never happened, you and Shuu might have been matched.”

“Even though we’re cousins?” she'd asked.

“Perhaps,” he'd replied, waving a hand. It was a little dismissive. She wasn't used to it. She said nothing. She supposed she'd have to get used to it. “You'll never be my daughter-in-law now, you understand? But if you still wish to become one of our servants, I promise we will treat you well.”

She had nodded.

She feels more than sees the shadow fall over her. When she turns to look, a boy a few years older than her stands by the wall, beaming. He is holding a rose in his hands. He is beautiful.

* * *

“Karren.”

It sounds just as sweet as she had imagined.

This is a good way to die.

* * *

“Ja dich will ich lieben und achten, bis der Tod uns scheidet.”

Yes, I want to love and honour you, until death divides us.


End file.
